


A Day in the Life

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Series: Paternoster Row: the spinoff [13]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What were Jenny and Vastra doing during The Wedding of River Song? What sort of mischief can our heroines get into with all of time, space, and possibility at their fingertips? And who is truly behind the killings perpetrated by Clarence DeMarco?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> Whether or not you liked the episode, I hope you agree that the concept makes for a pretty fun playground. Especially since it gives our heroines a chance to venture outside the usual Victorian setting without hitching a ride on the TARDIS. So yes, please enjoy!
> 
> Also, this serves as the season-opener special for season 2, which I have only just finished, thanks in part to a recent relocation on my part! But once it has been beta'd by the lovely Imaginary Golux, regular posting will resume.

“Woke up! Fell out of bed!” Jenny Flint sings along with the radio as she dances from the bedroom to the bathroom and the digital clock flashes 5:02. “Dragged a comb across my head!” She continues to hum along as she steps into the shower, feeling well-rested and pleasant. Something tugs at the back of her mind; there is something odd about the fact that the Beatles are one of her favorite musical groups, she knows, but she can't quite place it, and as Vastra steps into the steam beside her, she loses the thought completely. 

“Madame!” Jenny calls teasingly. “We'll be late for our show!” They are nearly dressed now, and Vastra relents, letting Jenny tug combat boots on over her jeans. “It's 5:02 now, and we go on the air at 5:02 sharp!” The illogic of this statement glides past both of them, the twinge of their time-traveler's senses ignored in their hurry as they dash downstairs to the kitchen to grab a pair of protein bars for breakfast before hopping aboard their hoverbike. 

Fortunately the early morning traffic hasn't hit rush hour yet—neither of them likes driving between 5:02 and 5:02, when the skies are clogged—and they make it to their studio with plenty of time, tipping their helmets to Strax, the security guard. “There you two are,” Rachel Beer says, relieved. “Come on, let's get you through makeup and on set.” Twenty minutes later, and with Vastra's high-necked blouse properly buttoned, at 5:02 sharp, the cameras start rolling.

“Good morning, Holy British Empire; have we got a show for you?” Jenny tells their viewing public. “Mary Shelley will be on to talk about her debut bestseller, Frankenstein, later,” she continues.

***

“Oh good,” Nellie says, watching at home. “I rather like that one,” she notes, bouncing her littlest, Mabel, on her knee.

“Mum, can I read it when you're finished?” Peter pries.

“No,” she tells him, firmly.

“But Maggie's reading it,” Peter replies.

“Maggie's eighteen, just like Mommy,” Nellie counters, the impossibility of this statement utterly lost on her as she tries to feed three children breakfast. “You're only nine. Now finish your cereal or you'll miss the bus.” Peter sulks, but eats the last bites of his breakfast before grabbing his coat and following Daisy, his sister, to the bus stop. Nellie smiles, even as her gaze drifts to a picture of Neville, her eldest, and Henry, her oldest friend and husband, in their matching red uniforms. Her brave boys, she thinks proudly.

***

“But first,” Vastra continues, “time for the Relationship Crisis of the day! Here by vidphone, Mirabelle.”

“What seems to be the problem, Mirabelle?” Jenny asks.

The image sighs. “I'm just not sure if I want to propose to my long-term girlfriend,” she says. “We've been together for several years now, but I don't know if I want to take our commitment to the next level.”

“I can say that I never regretted the decision,” Vastra tells her.

“But it's not for everyone,” Jenny adds. “I suggest you take a long look at your girlfriend and ask yourself if you feel comfortable spending the rest of your life with her. And if the answer is yes, then go ahead.”

“But please, not just now,” Vastra cautions. “A public proposal needlessly complicates an emotionally fraught moment best shared in private.” She smiles. “For a variety of reasons.”

***

Across town, Mirabelle hangs up the phone. Across their salon, Anaya brings a group of patrons their food. Spend the next forty, fifty years like this? She thinks. Yes, she determines at last. After the breakfast rush, she decides.

***

“And up next, friend of the show Arthur Conan Doyle,” Jenny says, “to help us with our Crimebusters segment, give us some medical tips, and to talk about his latest story.”

Doyle walks on to applause. The popular regular takes his usual seat and smiles. “Pleased to see you, as always, Dr. Doyle,” Vastra welcomes him.

“Pleasure to be here,” Doyle replies.

“Let's get down to business, shall we?” Jenny asks. “Which of Britain's most feared criminals had best watch their backs today?”

“Clarence DeMarco,” Doyle announces as an artist's sketch flashes up on a screen behind them. “About average height, mid-forties, and extremely dangerous. Wanted for the murders of six women across the country.”

“Clarence DeMarco,” Vastra echoes. “You may have eluded the police; you will not elude me.” Assistants passed out mimeographed flyers detailing DeMarco's last-known appearance and whereabouts to the audience, and Jenny repeated this information for the viewers at home. “You would be best served by turning yourself in at once and saving yourself the trouble of being hounded and chased down. Indeed, it may be your only chance for mercy.” 

Jenny grins, pleased by her wife's ultimatum. “Now what's that we're hearing about a polio vaccine, Dr. Doyle?”

***

Anaya pours herself a cup of tea and the end of a sofa; the breakfast crowd has finally cleared up, giving her a rare moment to rest her feet. “Hello, gorgeous,” she calls as Mirabelle closes the distance between them.

“Hello indeed,” Mirabelle replies, sliding in beside her and giving Anaya a peck on the cheek. She takes a deep breath, and whispers in Anaya's ear. “Will you marry me?”

Anaya squeals with delight. “Yes, my love, of course.”

Mirabelle grins awkwardly. “I haven't got a ring.”

“That's alright,” Anaya says, moving towards the door. “You can make it up to me.

“Where are you going?” Mirabelle calls.

“I'm closing the premises for an hour,” Anaya replies, switching off the neon sign. “So you can make it up to me in private.” Anaya put on a confident grin; Mirabelle had been good to her in that respect, making her far more comfortable about her body and her desires. She keeps beaming as she unties her apron and heads upstairs to their flat.

***

“And cut,” Rachel calls. “Good work, ladies; see you tomorrow.” Jenny and Vastra wave their goodbyes as Rachel tends to the details of wrapping up the morning's production.

“5:02,” Jenny observes. “Spot of lunch before we duck over to Scotland Yard?”

“Capital suggestion, my sweet,” Vastra replies, kissing her wife before swinging one leg over their hovercycle. A chorus of boos greets them as they break their embrace. “Fundamentalists,” Vastra hisses as she opens the throttle, drowning out the angry rabble and leaving them far behind to return to bickering amongst themselves as to whose fashions are most scandalous.

“Closed? At 5:02?” Jenny asks as they pass Mirabelle's Bistro, one of their favorite lunch stops. “Chinese?”

“No, thank you; I still have half of Meng Li Rong, the notorious poisoner of Shanghai, in the freezer.” She blinks. “Ah, yes, I suppose you would find her not to your tastes, even stir-fried with a bit of soy sauce. What about a curry?”

“That'll do nicely, madame,” Jenny decides, and they hang a right.

***

Vastra slows down to look for a parking spot, and Jenny hears their cell phone ring. She fishes the brick out of her bag and answers. “Hello? Yes, this is Jenny. No, Vastra is driving.” She moves the microphone away from her lips and whispers. “Your parents want to meet us for lunch.” Vastra nods, somewhat reluctantly. She hopes that things won't blow up, but then, she doesn't get to see her family as often as she might like. “Yes, we'd love to meet you. No, Mulligan's is fine.” All of human cuisine to choose from, Vastra thinks, and her parents fall in love with pub food. She laughs, and pulls back into the flow of traffic.

***

Jenny is pleased when she spots and correctly identifies Vastra's parents. Granted, there aren't many Silurians in the crowded pub, but there are several groups. She runs over the little details in her mind. Venza is tall and muscular, and her sharp blue eyes and crisp bearing mark her as a military officer even when in civilian clothes as now. Her daughter bears a strong resemblance to her, but with darker green scales. Davvy is stocky, with a warm smile. Ironically, he is the one with a scar on his face: one of his biochemical experiments had an unpredictable reaction which sent a shard of glass through his cheek. He laughs about it now, despite the month he spent living on protein shakes and blood. He rises to greet his daughter and her wife with kisses on their foreheads. 

“Good to see you too, sir,” Jenny tells him as they sit. 

“Always good to see someone who can make my eldest so happy,” Davvy replies. “Not like that Breya—that was a tumultuous few years, eggshell.”

“Father!” Vastra squirms, crests flaring. Still, at least they hadn't brought any more baby pictures. Sometimes she was jealous of Jenny and the fact that her family didn't keep in touch. But never for very long, she admits, finally relenting in the familiar warmth. “How are Cinta and Markim?”

“Your sister is still writing poetry with that no-account boyfriend of hers,” Venza says with a frown. “But it does sell.”

“And your little brother is following in his old man's footsteps,” Davvy tells them proudly. “He's taking his exams right now—that's why we're in town and he isn't here.” Vastra nods knowingly. 

“And how is work treating you?” Venza asks.

“Quite good,” Jenny tells her, and begins to relate an anecdote about a group of bank robbers they had tracked down, putting her in-laws in stitches. Vastra cannot help but smile though she has heard the story before. “And that was when the rubber chicken exploded!” Jenny reaches the climax of the tale just as someone taps Davvy on the shoulder.

“Beg pardon?” he asks.

“Your kind aren't welcome in this country,” the tough begins. Drunk, Vastra notes. 5:02 somewhere, she supposes. “Clear out, Papist scum.” Ah, Vastra thinks. That explains the old-fashioned clothes. 

“I may be green,” Davvy tries to explain, “But that doesn't mean—oof!” The rest of his words are cut off by a punch to the stomach. The others are up in a heartbeat, and the brawl is joined. Davvy is strongly-built, and the other three are trained fighters, and the ruffians are soon stacked in a heap.

“That was distasteful,” Venza notes, dabbing at a cut with her napkin. “Yet strangely pleasurable.” She offers Jenny her hand to shake. “We should do this again some time.” 

“Perhaps not,” Jenny says with a laugh, surveying the damage to the surrounding tables. “Curry?”

“Lovely,” Davvy says. 

***

“Would you sign this?” asks an eager young copper, holding out a poster from their show. 

“First day on the job?” Jenny asks, dipping her quill into the inkwell. 

He nods. “Don't start to 5:02, but I heard you were coming over, so I thought I'd come in a little early.” He blushes. “My son's your biggest fan.”

“Ah, shall we make it out to him, then?”

“Please; Patrick's his name.” Vastra nods, and signs with a flourish. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank you,” Jenny tells him.

“Come on, rookie, get to work,” bellows the desk sergeant, Mayweather. “Madame, Miss Flint, an honor to see you, as always. I've got quite the stumper for you.”

***

Mayweather has, in fact, got quite the unusual item today, though at first blush Jenny is not impressed. “Is that it?” she asks, approaching the kneeling stone angel. Its hands are folded in front of its face, but Jenny gets the unmistakeable impression that it is crying. “It's a very good piece, I'll grant you,” she notes, examining the stone, “but it doesn't look like much of a mystery to me. No blood on it. Is it stolen?” The sculpture is a trifle incongruous next to the diner, but perhaps the owner has odd taste in decoration.

“Checked with every graveyard and church in town, miss, first thing I did. Nobody's reported one missing.”

Jenny turns toward the policeman, annoyed. “I don't mean to be rude, Sergeant, but what the devil did you bring us here for?”

He pulls a Polaroid from his pocket. “I took this a few hours ago when I was on patrol. Not strictly speaking for business, but I do like a bit of amateur photography in my spare time, and as you say, miss, its a fine piece. But after I took the picture, I heard a car backfire, and turned to look, and when I looked back, it had moved towards me.”

Jenny looks at the picture, then back at the statue. “It's in the same pose in the same place, Mayweather. This is a rubbish sort of prank.”

Mayweather's eyes widen. “I swear, it was standing when I took the picture, crying just like that. And then I looked away and it had taken a step towards me. And now it's kneeling. And so is the picture.”

“Come on, madame, let's see Mayweather here back to the station and ring him a doctor.”

“No!” Vastra says. She has been thinking silently this whole time. There is something familiar about this scenario, something treacherous. Her scales itch and her muscles tense; the word 'doctor' has reminds her of what she was forgetting. “That statue is extremely dangerous,” she warns the others. “Keep away from it. It can move, but only when it is not observed.” It can do something else, she knows, but she cannot imagine what that something else could be. “While it is quantum-locked, it is harmless, but if we look away, even for a moment, it will be on us like lightning.”

“How did I forget that?” Jenny asks the air. “Mayweather, radio for backup; the more pairs of eyes, the better. And Mayweather, do you smoke?”

“Not on the job,” he replies. “But Christ, I could use a hit about now.”

“If you have your lighter, burn that Polaroid.” He nods, and fishes in his pocket for his lighter and the picture, handing them to Jenny as he switches on his radio. 

“Beg pardon,” he says. “But what do I tell the lads when they get here?”

“That there is a dangerous artifact which needs to be destroyed. High explosives, perhaps. Cutting lasers, if they have them. Or sledgehammers.” As Vastra finishes speaking, the neon sign of the diner flashes. Instinctively, all three pairs of eyes sneak a glance at it. By the time they are looking at the angel again, it has its hand on Jenny's bare arm. “Jenny!”

“I'm alright, madame,” she relates, stepping slowly away. “I think it tried to do something to me—I could feel it. But nothing happened, and that made it angry.” She shivers. “I'll be just as happy once we've seen that thing destroyed.”

***

The police arrive after fifteen minutes of blinking in shifts, and Jenny and Vastra wait until they've started dismantling the angel before leaving. They caution them against photographing even a piece of the angel as their parting advice. 

“Speaking of photographs, madame,” Jenny gestures towards the popping flashbulbs.

“Bloody paparazzi,” she mutters. “We will have take a cab, Mayweather. It would not do for us to be seen getting into the back of your paddy wagon.”

“Thanks for the offer, anyway,” Jenny says, and waves goodbye. “See you back at the station.” They hail for a cab, but the driver of the nearest familiar black automobile is arguing in a bastard mix of Latin and English with a Roman legionnaire. “Tube, madame?” Jenny knows it would have been a bit wasteful, but she almost wishes they had taken their hoverbike from the station instead of riding with Mayweather.

***

The first two stops go smoothly. Then they change lines, and the doors close before Vastra spots her. “Hello, dear,” Breya says. 

“Breya,” Vastra nods politely but coldly.

“No friendly welcome for your old lover?” Breya asks mockingly. She appears to notice Jenny, as if for the first time. “Ah, still have the ape, have we?”

In the blink of an eye, Breya is pressed up against the side of the car, Vastra's forearm underneath her chin. “If you speak of my wife in such a way again, I'll eat your heart on the dueling grounds.” Breya submits; she may be a bully, but she is no fool. They both know Vastra is the better fighter.

Vastra releases her as the train pulls into the next station. “Change here for the Circle Line,” sing-songs the automated voice. “Please mind the gap.”

“Come with me, love?” Breya wheedles, stepping off the train. 

Vastra stares at her impassively. “We'll be getting off later.”

“Well, you know where to find me when you've outgrown your hot water bottle and are ready for a real woman again,” she snaps as the doors shut.

Jenny giggles. “I'm your hot water bottle, am I?”

“You are very nice to hold on a frosty night,” Vastra teases, and snakes an arm around her wife as the train moves off.

***

Vastra and Jenny reach the surface at last to find a man wearing an RAF greatcoat and a strange bracelet on one arm. The bracelet is exposed because his arms are raised to pound on a police box. “Doctor!” the man yells with an American accent. “Doctor, I know you're in there.”

Doctor, Vastra thinks. That word again. “You mean the police, don't you?” Jenny asks him. “Maybe we can help?” She pushes open the door of the police box, and the strange man slumps, laughing, against the side of the box. 

“I keep forgetting...” He shakes his head and looks at them more closely, as though he recognizes them. “Maybe you can help,” he admits. “It's my friend, Kit—he's dead. Murdered.”

“Then you have come to the right place,” Vastra informs him, and introduces herself and Jenny. “Pray, what is your name?”

“Captain Jack Harkness,” he tells them with a winning grin. “Doing anything later?”

“Not you,” Vastra tells him. 

Jack shrugs. “This way, then.” He leads them into the bar across the street. “We had just met, maybe an hour ago, and had been having some drinks at the bar. We were just about to go upstairs to continue our conversation,” Jenny interprets this to mean 'shag,' given the way he had propositioned them earlier, “when he went to use the restroom. I waited a few minutes, then I figured maybe he went upstairs to get ready for me.” They follow Jack upstairs, where Kit's corpse is lying amidst a lot of broken furniture. “That's where I found him, stabbed to death.”

“But no blood,” Jenny observes. The man's tunic is a mess, but there is hardly any blood on the floor or the smashed-up table where he lies. “Did anyone hear or see anything?”

“Nothing,” Jack says, shaking his head.

“And no knife,” Vastra observes. “And yet the windows are locked, and there is only one door. Very unusual.”

“I was hoping my friend, the Doctor, could help when I saw that box. Not usually his cup of tea, but certainly strange. You don't know him, do you?”

“Sounds familiar, but I can't place it,” Jenny says, shaking her head. “Shall we search the place, madame?” 

They do, but despite their best efforts they find no more obvious clues. “We shall certainly continue to look into this mystery,” Vastra tells Jack. “What did you say your friend's name was?”

“Christopher Marlowe,” he replies. “He's a playwright.” Jenny and Vastra nod sadly, and apologize for not being able to do more as they leave, and head for the police station to collect their bike.

***

Anaya finally gets a moment to think before the dinner rush hits. It isn't as though she's not good at planning for the future, or doesn't like doing it—it's just that she hasn't known what she wants to be when she grows up for so long. Well, she supposes, she is grown up now, or near enough. Is this what she wants? To marry a beautiful woman and work in their salon for the rest of her life? Something seems oddly missing, and she can't quite remember if she will attend university in the fall, but nothing more than a vague nagging feeling at the back of her mind which was more than drowned out by the euphoric afterglow. Yes, she thinks, this will rather do.

***

Henry practically skips into the mess; the CO caught up to him in the trenches and let him know his leave request had been granted, beaming even at the sound of Sopwith Camels flying overhead. He's thrilled at the prospect of seeing his wife and kids again after so long with only his fellow soldiers and his adopted son for company. And, well, the enemy. (He tries to remember who they are fighting. The Germans? The French? The Iraqis? He supposes it is unimportant: as long as they're shooting at him, that's what matters.) He loosens the straps on his bright red Kevlar vest as he sits to eat, laser pistol clanging on the bench. Neville joins him to share his good fortune. 

“You'll be going home tonight, then?” Neville asks, and he nods. “Say to mum for me, Dad.”

“That's Corporal to you, laddie,” Henry jokes, but he can't hide how good it feels to hear Neville call him 'Dad' without a hint of mockery or irony. “I'll do that,” he continues after he swallows a bite.

“Be good to get back to home cooking, eh?” Neville jokes as Henry pokes at the glop with his fork.

“Yeah,” he says. “Stay safe, you hear.”

“Yes, Corporal,” Neville kids.

***

Doyle finally comes home after a long day at the office. Being a TV doctor meant he was rather sought after by patients, and he'd had to expand his practice again recently, hiring another doctor and another clerk. He'd certainly needed both women (something teased at the edges of his tired mind about that fact) today, that was for certain.

“Dinner's ready,” Louisa called as he hung up his jacket.

“You are marvelous, my dear,” he proclaimed, kissing her on the cheek.

“Not in front of Mary, dear.”

Doyle blinked. Mary seemed...older...than he remembered. “Where's Kingsley?”

Louisa slaps him. “You bastard! That isn't funny. He's been dead for a year now, and none of your spiritualist blather is going to bring him back.”

“I'm so sorry, my love,” Doyle begins. How could he have forgotten that? “It was a busy day,” he began, knowing that was a rubbish excuse, “and I think I just wanted to see him again, so badly...” He trails off, slowly. He doesn't think he's lying to his wife; does it count as lying if you don't know what the truth is?

“That's alright, dear,” Louisa replies, drawing him into an embrace. “Come, sit, and let's eat.”

As Doyle takes his seat, another woman, chivvying three children ahead of her, joins them at table. “Jean?” he asks, recognizing his friend. “So good of you to join us!”

“Is that any way to talk to your wife?” Jean replies.

“I beg your pardon!” Doyle exclaims. Certainly he fancied Jean, but he was unflinchingly loyal to Louisa. “Louisa is my wife.”

“Yes, I am,” Louisa notes. “And so is she.” Doyle blinks. He really hadn't expected this. 

“But that's not...” His mind swims. “Possible? Legal?”

Jean and Louisa exchange a worried look. “Of course it is, darling,” Louisa assures him. “The Empire legalized polygamy in the 4040s, and we married Jean three years later.”

“You certainly weren't complaining last night. Or this morning.” Jean added with a grin. “Now cut the roast, husband dear. It's getting cold and the children are getting restless.”

“So they are,” he notes, taking the carving knife and fork. Our children. Goodness, what a day. What a wonderful day. What a mad day.

***

“Come on, madame,” Jenny says, after they've cleared out some of Scotland Yard's backlog. “Let's get some dinner; I'm famished.” She pauses to buy a newspaper from the newsboy at the corner: Columbus Discovers America, reads the headline.

“This day has seemed to drag on, rather. Dinner, then home?” Vastra asks. 

“Yes, I think so.” Jenny says, buckling on her helmet and wrapping her arms around Vastra's waist.

***

There is a message on their vidphone when they return. Rachel Beer's face appears on the screen, and Jenny swats at Vastra's tongue, dipping over her shoulder towards her cleavage, out of habit, though she knows her producer can't see them at the moment. “We got a tip on today's Crimebusters: someone saw Clarence DeMarco entering an apartment building at 5:02 today.” She rattles off the address. “It's just 5:02 now, so if you hurry, you can make it.”

Jenny and Vastra exchange looks. “Time to get some exercise,” Jenny decides. Grinning, they strap their helmets back on.

They arrive to the sound of screams and sprint up the steps and through the half-open door. DeMarco, a feral glint in his eyes, decides that three to one odds displease him, and he abandons his chokehold on the young woman to flee out the window and down the fire escape. Jenny pauses only a moment to make sure his victim will recover, then takes off after him as Vastra doubles back to get their hoverbike. 

Speedy bastard, she thinks as she keeps pace down the metal steps. He stops and faces her at the bottom. Well, if he's sizing me up as a replacement, I can show him the error of his ways, she thinks, sliding on a set of brass knuckles. She flashes a predatory grin that Vastra might be proud of as he flinches and runs away. His legs are longer, but she suspects that her conditioning is far superior; if she can just keep up with him, she can run him down easily...unless he has a hovercar waiting for him. “Bollocks,” she mutters, and leaps into the backseat of the convertible as he takes off.

The landing takes the wind out of her for a few seconds, long enough for DeMarco to get up and off the ground. She can hear the familiar hum of their bike approaching fast and threads her arm through the loop of the seatbelt as they accelerate. And just in time, too, she realizes as he puts the car into a roll. She swings about, but ultimately stays put, able to brace herself to grapple with the killer. The hovercar swerves, and a flight of Sopwith Camels breaks formation to scramble out of their way. Jenny spares a moment's thought for Vastra as she flails with DeMarco and tries not to ram a pterodactyl. 

Without warning, DeMarco looses his seatbelt and leaps from the hovercar, landing atop a zeppelin. Jenny swears, vaults into the front seat, and wheels the car around hard, catching a glimpse of DeMarco as he vanishes inside. She rattles off a continuous string of profanity until she reaches the docking bay on the zeppelin, Vastra close behind her. “Sorry, madame, I lost him,” she apologizes as they dash aboard the zeppelin.

“No regret required,” Vastra rejoins. “I could not have done better. Come, let us find the captain or someone who can help us find Mr. DeMarco.”

“Easier said than done, madame,” Jenny notes as the crowd recognizes them and begins to press about them. 

“Would you sign this?” asks one.

“I'm sorry, we're—” 

“God hates you! God hates dykes!” Vastra is interrupted by a knot of chanting, impromptu protestors, soon drowned out by the cheers.

“Here's my phone number,” offers one woman with a wink. “For both of you, of course.”

Jenny blushes, absently pockets the slip of paper, and is saved the necessity of further response when a man hoots “Show us your tits.” She snarls and drops him with a single punch.

“My dear,” Vastra observes, “I am afraid you forgot that you were still wearing your brass knuckles.”

“No,” Jenny replies meaningfully and a little loudly, “I didn't forget.” Everyone drops to a hush and the crowd disperses. “We're looking for a dangerous criminal, Clarence DeMarco. Can anyone help us find him?” The silence was parted by a scream. “Never mind,” she sighs, breaking back into a run as the crowd parts and scatters.

They track the screams with ease, coming up on DeMarco as he grapples with a female crewmember. He swears and pushes her away, darting up the steps. They spare only a few moments to make sure she is well before speeding after DeMarco, finally catching up to him atop the zeppelin.

“This has gone on long enough, DeMarco,” Vastra begins. She and Jenny walk towards the felon, slowly spreading out to flank him. They advance cautiously, less for the threat that DeMarco poses and more for the gusts of wind that buffet all three of them. Vastra can see the safety railing out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn't trust it to save her should she fall. 

“Yes, more than long enough,” DeMarco giggles. “But they won't let me...” He trails off, cocking his head as though listening to a sound only he can here. Vastra and Jenny both pause; is this some stratagem? Without warning, DeMarco turns, and bolts for the nose of the zeppelin. Jenny and Vastra pursue with care; hardly worth risking one's neck for a madman trying to save the Empire the cost of a trial. Laughing giddily, DeMarco slides under the railing and down the front of the ship, and, incredibly, onto a waiting hovercar, which zooms away into the setting sun.

Vastra sags onto the railing, which Jenny pounds with both hands. “Sorry, madame. I thought we had him there.”

“Hardly your fault,” Vastra observes mildly. “We could hardly foresee such a turn of events. Clarence DeMarco was not known to act with accomplices. However, in light of recent happenings, it seems we must revise that hypothesis. An invaluable piece of knowledge, and two lives saved in the bargain.”

“And a phone number,” Jenny adds teasingly. “Suppose we can't sleep with all of our admirers.”

“No more than we may murder our detractors,” Vastra rejoins. “Though that was an excellent punch, my love, and justly given. Come, let us go home.”

***

Aboard a nondescript hovercar heading west, Clarence DeMarco shivers at the shadowy figure which he knows must be in the driver's seat. The roof of the convertible has been raised, and with it a barrier separating the front and back seats, as heavily tinted as the windows (all to prevent scrutiny), but he can feel it in his gut: his benefactor (if you dare call him that) is driving the car. His rational mind, what remains of it, is divided on the issue. Part of him thinks it would be best to stand trial (even trial by ordeal), and take the escape of hanging. The rest favors the pleasure of life, tortured as it is by his benefactor, of breathing even as he chokes the life out of another. He smiles. Yes, it's simple pleasures he likes. 

***

Anaya comes out of the bathroom wearing a warm, white robe, her hair only a little damp. “Come to bed,” Mirabelle says, waving a bottle of wine and two glasses, “and get drunk with me.”

Anaya laughs. “You'd think it was a special occasion,” she says, but sits on the bed anyway, curling her legs beneath her. Her mind flashes back with the taste of the wine, and she shivers. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“How could I forget?” Mirabelle asks. “I puked all over your shoes at that Rolling Stones concert. You laughed and said I was still the hottest thing you'd ever seen.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Anaya nods slowly. “Anything about blue ghosts?”

Mirabelle giggles and refills her wineglass. “I wasn't that high. And the pyrotechnics weren't that good.”

Anaya laughs. “No, you're right, of course.” She can remember the Stones, and the vomit, and spending the rest of the day walking around barefoot. She can remember the blue ghosts, too, but maybe that was just a dream. Well, she thinks, sipping her wine, she can sort that out in the morning.

***

5:02, Nellie thinks as the doorbell rings; who could be calling at this hour? “Hello, dearest,” Henry says, and catches her as she sags into his arms. He smiles as his children swarm them. It isn't that he hates going to war, that he isn't proud to fight the foreign menace—but that being with his family is so wonderful. 

“How's Neville?” Nellie whispers.

“He's fine,” he promises. “Now go to bed, kids!” He tells them, sternly. “It's late.” He doubts this will work, but it's worth a try. Oh well, he thinks, as they all file into the living room. They're young. They'll live. And it's not like they have school tomorrow.

***

Vastra watches as Jenny pulls off her boots, jacket, and jeans to collapse on the sofa. It is at times like this, she muses, that her ape looks so...vulnerable, like a mollusc prized from its shell. She smiles as Jenny lifts her legs obligingly, and drapes them warmly across her lap as she sits. As charming as the scene is, Vastra cannot help but think that there is something wrong. “Jenny?” Her wife blinks back a yawn. “What time is it?”

Jenny glances at her watch. “5:02, madame. Why do you ask?”

The swirling debris of the day finally settles, and Vastra can reflect, reaching behind her to cue up a playlist of soothing, classical music on her docked iPad. “I just feel like it's been 5:02 all day.”

“Of course, madame; it's always 5:02.” Jenny says blithely, then catches herself. “Why can I remember other times, other people? So many things we've done, fluttering around like butterflies, just out of reach, gone as soon as I look away.” She bites her lip. Madame has been making her practice the arts of logic and deduction, though they still aren't her strong suit. If only she had more information to go on, she thinks.

As if her prayers were answered (she doubts this), in a flash of light they are back in Paternoster Row. Jenny realizes she is back in her Victorian undergarments, and Vastra is wearing a proper dress instead of a blouse and slacks. The same song is playing, but on a gramophone. Jenny blinks. “Madame, what in blue blazes just happened?”

Vastra shakes her head. “Truly, my love, I know not.”

“Too bloody sore and tired to have hallucinated the whole thing,” Jenny mutters. 

“Agreed,” Vastra notes, thoughtfully massaging Jenny's calves through her stockings. “Tell me, Jenny, does this remind you in any way of one of our recent adventures?”

It takes Jenny a moment, but Vastra beams as the epiphany dawns across her wife's face. “That business with the dictionaries?” she asks. “The way we could remember what they used to look like, because we had traveled in time. I remember it now, now that we're back here.” She frowns. “Did we travel in time, madame? That didn't seem like any place the Doctor's ever taken us or told us about. Why, there were flying cars and dinosaurs, side by side! Winston Churchill and Christopher Columbus in the same papers!”

Vastra shakes her head. “I do not know what just happened, or why. But I would be very surprised if, at the root of the matter, we would not find the Doctor and his associates. Speaking of which,” she notes, “we should check in on our friends in the morning. Reality appears to have reasserted itself for now, but perhaps they may have some useful insights. For now, however, we must rest.”

***

“I'm going to miss trousers,” Jenny announces over breakfast. “And being able to snog you in public. And the Beatles.”

“I miss my duties as master of the car park,” Strax counters. “I was going to install laser turrets at strategic points...” He trails off, evidently lost in some sort of tactical reverie.

“I might wish we had retained our hoverbike,” Vastra concludes as they hail a cab. She tells the cabbie Doyle's address, and they are off.

***

Doyle scratches at the stubble on his jaw as the banging at his door rouses him. He kisses his wife (Just one, he wonders?) absently as he crawls out of bed. He mutters angrily to himself as he pulls on a robe and makes his way downstairs. “Good morning?” he asks hesitantly. 

“Glad to see that you're well,” Jenny says.

“Awful early, isn't it?” he asks, based on nothing more than how tired he feels.

“It is ten o'clock,” Vastra informs him, a touch of amusement creeping into her voice.

“Oh,” Doyle says simply. “Late night for me, sorry.” He blushes as the details of said night begin to come back to him, and adjusts his robe. “Do come in,” he offers, not wishing to spend any more time than necessary on his front steps in his pajamas.

“Do you have any...strange memories?” Jenny asks. “The sort of thing that could never happen today.”

Doyle closes his eyes. “There was something called...television...and I was married. To two different women. At once.” He coughs.

“Congratulations,” Vastra and Jenny chorus.

“You shan't tell anyone?” he asks. “I could be prosecuted!”

“Of course not,” Jenny tells him. 

Vastra nods. “It appears that only a few trips are necessary to enable the brain to recall fluctuations in time,” she observes. “I suggest we fetch the young ones and return to Paternoster Row, as we have much to discuss.”

***

One by one, they start to remember. None of them have traveled with the Doctor as frequently as Jenny and Vastra have, but their trips appear to be sufficient. 

“Nellie,” Henry begins carefully, “were we married?”

“Oh God, we were,” she says with a laugh. “And we had five kids!”

“And Maggie was as old as you were!” he says, chuckling. “She was going to university in the fall,” he continues, suddenly sober. “She was going to be an artist. Our little Maggie, all grown up and we hardly knew her.” He had fantasized about raising a family with Nellie from time to time; he hadn't expected to live it and unlive it all in a day.

“And you were in the war, with Neville,” Nellie continues. “You'd just come home! We were going to spend the night together, as a family. All sounds rather charming,” she concludes.

“I got engaged to Mirabelle,” Anaya reveals. “She told me she did it because of your TV show, whatever that means.” She giggles, then quiets. “She won't remember any of this, will she? She didn't remember the Gelth when she was...then...either.”

“No, I suppose not,” Vastra says. “Though I am essentially guessing as to the nature of this disturbance; the Silurians were brilliant scientists, but even we had not bent time itself to our whim.”

Doyle, who has said little throughout the meeting, pipes up. “My son, Kingsley—in the other time, he was dead. Will he?...”

Jenny places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “All sorts of crazy, impossible things happened with time all helter-skelter. For all I know, your son won't die for eighty years.”

Vastra nods. “All of time, and indeed, I would venture all of possibility, smashed and thrown together like a ship pulled into a maelstrom, the flotsam careening together in unpredictable ways: one cannot use such a picture to guess where the ship would go in fair weather.”

Doyle nods gratefully, and dries his eyes. 

“What were the two of you doing?” Henry asks.

“Chasing a killer named Clarence DeMarco all over town,” Jenny tells them. “Blimey, you should have seen it.” She shakes her head, then stops suddenly. “Madame,” she begins. 

“Yes?”

“DeMarco was wearing contemporary clothes—for us. Wasn't he?”

Vastra shivers. “Yes, I believe he was, though that may mean nothing, as we were in futuristic garb. Still, your instinct has proven correct so many times in the past that I should be ashamed to neglect it now. We shall all keep our eyes open for Mr. DeMarco; this time, he will not prove to be so evasive.”

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes: First things first, obviously everything here is completely out of order and thrown together haphazardly. Moving on.
> 
> A Day in the Life was written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney in 1967; the alternatingly bouncy and trippy sections seemed to suit the mood of this piece well, so I borrowed the title and snatches of the lyrics for Jenny to sing. The Holy Roman Empire was founded in 800 AD and lasted for over a thousand years; the Holy British Empire is a whole other kettle of fish. British soldiers began wearing red in 1645. The mimeograph dates to 1886 (which actually surprised me, since it remained in use well into the 20th century). Frankenstein was written by Mary Shelley in 1818. Jonas Salk developed the first polio vaccine in 1952. The Polaroid camera was invented in 1937. Caesar invaded Britain as early as 55 BC, though apparently a proper conquest came about a hundred years later. Christopher Marlowe died in 1593. Arthur Conan Doyle's first wife, Louisa, passed away in 1906, and his son, Kingsley, in 1918. These events led strongly to his belief in Christian Spiritualism, though, as I've said before, I'm kind of handwaving that. Also, he met and fell in love with Jean Leckie in 1897. Whoops! If I keep writing, we will probably touch on those events. Columbus first visited the Americas in 1492. The Sopwith Camel made its debut in 1917, and is probably best remembered today for its association with Snoopy in the Peanuts comics. Zeppelins were patented in Germany in 1895, though the original idea is much older. The Rolling Stones clock in at one year older than Doctor Who, forming in 1962. The iPad, on the other hand, is exactly as old as Matt Smith's run as the Doctor. Anything or anyone not mentioned is probably fictional, though I might have missed a few details. 
> 
> I don't know if Weeping Angels can be destroyed through regular physical means or not; you'll have to ask Steven Moffat for that one. But we do know that they can be defeated through the use of a big enough paradox, so let's say that the damage done to the timestream weakened this one to the point where it was vulnerable to more conventional weaponry. Obviously Vastra's family and acquaintances are all completely my invention. In case it isn't clear, when I say that Jack propositioned Jenny and Vastra, I mean that he introduced himself. This is a canon way that Jack Harkness flirts with people.


End file.
